


You Can Look (But You Can't Touch)

by TheEveling



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: A surprising amount of fluff, Bodyguard AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Gratuitous Violence, Guns and Blood and Stuff, Hitmen AU, M/M, Michael Cries and Ryan Has Boyfriend Instincts, Michael Jones Swears, Myan is Confused but Also Aroused?, Non-Major Character Implied/Referenced Suicide, Oops I Forgot the Angst Tag, team crazy mad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-12-10 10:57:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEveling/pseuds/TheEveling
Summary: Michael thinks he doesn't need a bodyguard. Ryan doesn't want to bodyguard a hitman.Then Ryan shoots someone in the forehead to save Michael's ass, and they're both convinced it might be a good idea, even while they're being hunted by a group Michael's gotten himself unfortunately tangled up in, and across the United States, at that.It's like a road trip, but with more guns and a lot less scenery, and maybe they both realise a few things about themselves and each other, but mostly each other, especially when it comes to maybe wanting touse those handcuffs in a probably not legal waykiss each other. They don't know yet. Maybe it's indigestion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I went to the movies and saw Atomic Blonde. It was pretty fucking amazing. I also saw some trailers for The Hitman's Bodyguard and Kingsman: The Golden Circle. This is inspired by all of them.
> 
> @the NSA, don't look at my search history. Asking for a friend.

“You’re telling me a hitman can’t take care of himself?”

“He worked a hit for us. It went sour. Hitmen specialise in takeouts, not protection,” Gus frowns at him. “You of all people should know that, Haywood.”

Ryan sighs. Considers his options. Picks up the file that had been offered to him when the briefing had started. Reads the biography page and is painfully unimpressed by what might as well be a mugshot. “You’re giving me a Jersey?”

“He thinks he doesn’t need a bodyguard. Good luck.”

Ryan wishes he remembers anything Gus had said during the briefing when he knocks on Michael Jones’ front door and it opens about two inches, still chain-locked. Jones looks him up and down, clearly unsurprised by the telltale bulge in his jacket. Adjusts his beanie. Speaks with a very vague accent. “You. Asshole, Haywood, whatever. You’re packing in Trenton. You trying to get killed?”

“You going to let me in so I don’t?”

“No,” Jones replies. “I told them not to send anyone. They sent you anyway. Not my problem.”

Ryan stares at him until the door starts to close. He steps forward, shoving a foot in the way. “Let me talk for a few minutes, assess the situation. I’ll talk to my superiors and get the case resolved...I don’t really want to be here, either, to tell you the truth. I don’t know who decided to assign bodyguards to feeble hitmen, but it’s probably a waste of money.”

“I will shoot your toes off,” Jones says, watching him until he removes his foot. His gaze moves to the city moving behind Ryan. A pause. The door closes for a moment, then opens again, unlocked. Jones grabs him by the arm and pulls him inside, closing and re-chaining the door behind them. “Talk.”

“You’re going to want to take a seat. I have a questionnaire.”

Jones’ gaze narrows. “I don’t have time for that shit. A guy has been camping in the building across the street for a week. He just watched you come inside. Definitely knows you’re packing. If you don’t leave soon he’s going to come in here and kill both of us.”

Ryan frowns. “I thought-”

“No, I don’t need someone to follow me the fuck around and shove safety up my asshole. I’m doing just fine by myself on the staying alive front. Now, if you could go pick me up a nice, frosty glass of milk from Milkmart, that would be fucking great,” Jones crosses his arms, gaze stony. “They sent me a bodyguard. What I need is someone to get me some goddamn Chinese food.”

Ryan considers him for a moment. “When is the last time you went outside?”

“I haven’t been out since the boy scout across the street showed up for the fucking party. There’s a back exit, but every time I look over there, he’s monitoring me. He’ll know if I leave for more than a few minutes at a time, and that door doesn’t open from the outside, so I’d have to come back in through the front anyway. I’ve been living on ramen and tortillas.”

Ryan glances at his watch. He’s been inside for less than five minutes. He gives it a few more before the guy across the street comes looking. Not enough time to do much but prepare for a firefight. He pulls the gun out of his jacket and checks the clip.

“What the fuck are you doing, Haywood?”

“Getting ready for your boy scout to come through the front door. If we’re lucky he’ll give us a good shot out the window, first. Pack up whatever you need for an extended vacation. Call one of your contacts. I’ll get you there.”

Jones steps up to him. “I am not leaving. I don’t give a shit about the house, or the stuff, or that piece of ass across the street. I have a hit to take here. I’ve already talked to my client. I’m not leaving Trenton until it’s done.”

Ryan thinks for a moment. “Fine. If he has a pistol, use furniture for cover and we’ll incapacitate him. If he comes in guns blazing, shoot to kill. I need to make a call before he shows up. You should call your closest contact and let them know we’ll need to hide out for a few hours once this is done. We’ll figure out your client then.”

Jones frowns, removes his beanie to run hands through surprisingly curly hair, then nods. “Fine. We’ll make it quick.”

Jones retreats to the living room to make his call, so Ryan stands in the entryway, making an effort to spot the camper through a miniscule gap in the curtains as his own phone rings. Geoff picks up two rings in. “What’s up?”

“I know it’s early in the op and Gavin is supposed to be on break right now, but I’m bringing a firefight to Jones and myself and I’m going to need base in my ear.”

“You’ve been on assignment for how long? Half an hour?” Geoff sighs and hangs up on him. Ryan plugs his earpiece into the transmitter. Gavin is online about fifteen seconds later.

“Ryan! You’re going to shoot a guy?”

“He’s probably going to try to shoot me first,” Ryan replies, Jones appearing in the entryway behind him. Ryan turns to indicate his earpiece. “Base is here. Your guy is still across the street.”

“Nope, here he comes,” Jones says, producing a pistol from his jeans. “We moving back?”

“We don’t want to try to take him in the doorway. Are you particularly attached to your furniture?”

“I’m always open to renovations. Called one of my cleanup guys in, but a little blood stain never hurt anybody,” Jones replies, backing into the living room. Ryan follows, hugging the wall beside the doorway. He leans into the entryway to watch the camper climb the front steps. Pretty mean-looking guy. Full beard, tall, hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt. He blends in pretty well if Ryan ignores the butt of the pistol hanging out of his jeans, barely visible.

“Target approaching front, armed. Will incapacitate if there is no need to SOS,” Ryan murmurs to Gavin. He wouldn’t have had time to set up surveillance even if they were staying, so this is the best he can do. Probably try not to die.

The camper knocks on the front door. Ryan turns back to make contact with Jones, and they share a nod. Silence for a moment. The safety on both guns clicks off at the same time they hear the first rattle of someone trying to turn the doorknob. A pause, then the telling clicks of someone picking the lock. Ryan shoos Jones in the direction of the couch. Hopefully he’ll hide behind it if he’s smart.

The camper gets the door unlocked fairly quickly, but it doesn’t take long to catch on the chain. He grumbles a little, briefly rustles something, and Ryan hears the chain slide open. Probably the loop trick, if he had to guess. The door creaks as it’s pushed wide. A few footsteps. Ryan shifts his hold on his gun, moves just a little closer to the doorway, and lashes out with an arm. The camper catches it before the butt of the pistol can make contact with his skull.

Okay, Ryan thinks. Fistfight was not in the agenda. He twists his arm toward himself to pull the camper in, but he doesn’t manage much distance before the hold is broken. The guy reaches for the gun at his waist. Ryan has his pointed at his forehead before he has a chance to pull it.

“What are you, some kind of half-assed bodyguard?”

“Full-assed bodyguard, actually.” And then Ryan shoots him in the forehead. Fuck that guy anyway.

“I thought we weren't shooting to kill,” Jones says. Looks like he never actually moved behind the couch. A shame.

“He called me half-assed. Gavin, target’s out, Jones and I are on the move,” Ryan says, then waves Jones in the direction of the dead guy. They each take an arm and move him behind the couch so the cleanup team can deal with him when they get in. He won’t be visible from the door, which is closed and rechained as the curtains beside it are drawn.

“Roger roger,” Gavin replies. Jones picks up what is obviously a bug-out bag as they exit through the back door. Ryan leads him to the car he has parked in a backlot down the street, keeping an eye out for any angry camper buddies. They are safely in the car, air conditioning on and Jones’ bag in the back before anyone speaks again.

“Still don’t need a bodyguard?” Ryan asks, adjusting the rearview mirror to look at Jones without looking at him.

“Now that I’ve seen you in action, I think I’m okay with someone else doing the dirty work. It was kind of hot.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Jones offers a nice glare, settling his phone - definitely a burner - in the center console, GPS set. “Shut the fuck up and drive. I’d like to see you shoot a guy in the levator scapulae at three hundred meters.”

“That's Michael, right?” Gavin is audibly smiling again. “Can I talk to him?”

Ryan unhooks the earpiece from his own ear and forks it over. Jones looks kind of confused, but Ryan leaves him to figure it out on his own. He has traffic to pull out into. It's pretty obvious Gavin has made contact when Jones starts to sound very irate.

“It's Michael, dumbass, not - no, I'm not cute, I fucking shoot people for a living. Fuck you.”

Ryan probably could have let them talk for the entirety of the drive if it weren't for the GPS’ first interruption about thirty seconds in.

“‘The roundabout, you must take’?” Ryan asks, not quite sure if he should be surprised or incredulous.

“Yeah, my GPS is Yoda. What the fuck about it?” Michael replies, distracted again almost immediately by Gavin. “I pirated it from this European website.”

“Your guy knows we're coming, right?”

“Yeah, he’s fucking overjoyed. He'll be waiting on the front lawn with a rotisserie chicken and at least three strippers.”

Ray is not waiting with chicken or strippers, but there is someone wearing an appropriate amount of clothing standing next to him when they pull up.

“Shit, Joel’s here,” Jones grumbles, unbuckling and practically climbing over the console to grab his bag from the backseat as Ryan clips his earpiece back into place.

“A bad thing?” he questions.

“When Joel is around, Ray is fucking starry-eyed or some bullshit. He’d let him stick his dick in his ear if he said please.” A pause as Jones picks his phone up from the console and stuffs it in his bag. “Joel is also my client. I’m taking care of an old friend of his.”

“I don't think your ‘taking care of’ means the same thing mine does,” Ryan says, but Jones is already out of the car and walking with purpose. Ryan follows, maintaining some distance. No need to hover. Or spook his friends. Or both.

“Yo, Michael, you killed anyone lately?” the one that must be Ray asks, grinning as he raises a hand to meet Michael with a high-five. The other one’s arm is slung around his shoulders.

“Nah, but Haywood got a good one in twenty minutes ago. Right in the fucking forehead.”

Joel looks pretty dangerous and is probably packing. If Michael called Ray first, he’s definitely not a poster child for legal anything. Ryan turns away for a moment to speak to Gavin. “Get me a check on these two in relation to Jones. If they’re clean, we’re good until we go out for the hit.”

“On it,” Gavin says cheerfully, and Ryan turns back to the group to Michael saying something about DiGornio’s. Ray is grinning at him.

“Don’t trust us?” he asks, but it’s more of a statement than a question.

“Just doing my job,” Ryan replies. “I wouldn’t trust you with my client as far as I could throw you until I’ve gotten a check in.”

“That’s probably pretty far. Be careful, he might actually throw you,” Joel is smiling. No one is taking the situation seriously. Awesome. Anything goes wrong, Ryan will shoot first and ask questions later.

“Are you going to invite me inside and feed me now, or what? I haven’t had fresh food in a week, Ray. I’ll pay for pizza and mozzies if someone else calls the delivery place.” Michael heaves his bag over his shoulder, moving toward the house. Ray and Joel keep pace, and Ryan follows a few steps behind. He’s a little out of his element, here. Bodyguarding a hitman is weird enough, but meeting up with his hitmen friends to order pizza while they figure out how to kill another guy is going to be a little weirder.

“What do you have in that bug-out, Michael?” Ray asks as they climb the front step, reaching forward to hold open the door. “Some bricks? A body?”

“My life,” Jones replies, stepping inside. “One forty-seven, an SR-25, a Barrett, and a fuckton of ammo.”

“I still think you should settle down,” Joel sighs.

“I still think you should mind your own damn business. Who’s calling? I want garlic bread, too.”

By the time the pizza shows up and Ray is breathing its scent like oxygen, Ryan is ready for a nap. He’s just resting his eyes for a moment, in fact, when Gavin starts yelling in his ear again. He only startles a little bit.

“They’re clean, Rye. Joel Heyman has some weird stuff on his criminal record, but nothing we haven’t seen before. Ray’s record is sparkling like a baby’s arse.”

“Thanks, Gav. You can go AWOL until we head out again.”

The connection beeps as it goes mute. Ryan looks up to the group at the coffee table to meet Michael’s gaze. He’s been staring. “See anything you like?”

“It’s fucking weird having someone follow me around and talk to people that aren’t there all the time.”

“You’ve spoken to him. He’s definitely there.”

“No, like,” Jones reaches for another slice of pizza while he thinks. Ray is already reaching for a third. “I’m doing my own thing and I hear you talking out of fucking nowhere. I’m used to that being a really bad thing, but you’re just talking to Gavin or whatever trying to make sure everyone knows what’s going on. That people are safe. There’s an entire fucking who-knows-how-many people doing the same thing you and Gavin do. I don’t get it yet. I can’t hear someone talking behind me and not turn around ready to punch a bitch out.”

“Don’t think too hard. You’ll hurt yourself,” Ray says through a mouthful of pizza.

“Sure seems like a lot of people want you dead, kid,” Joel says, biting a mozzarella stick in half. “You sure you can hit Sonntag?”

“Easy,” Jones replies. “That’s what my hot bodyguard is here for. Have you seen his handcuffs?”

“We buy in bulk,” Ryan says, glancing at his watch, then looking back up to watch Michael throw a pizza crust at Ray. “We need to work out what we’re doing for your hit. We’re losing light.”

“Demarais gave me what he had.” Joel turns to dig into the drawers of the sidetable behind him, pulls out what looks like a lot of information on a few pieces of paper, and slides the packet across the table to Michael, who peruses it for a moment.

“What he has is a lot of weird shit and some useful schedule shit,” Michael frowns, flipping a page.

“It’s Chris. It’s probably not safe to expect any not-weird shit.”

“Fair,” Michael says, flipping to the last page. Reading for a moment. “If we get there after six, he’ll be in his room at Homewood Suites. This hotel has two wings, so if we’re lucky I can shoot from the roof. If the angle is too sharp, I can set up on top of the maintenance shed once it gets dark, but we’ll have to book it out of there the second I get it in.”

“What if the information is inaccurate?” Ryan asks. There are probably a lot of things that could go wrong, here. He doesn’t like any of them. Everyone at the table turns to stare at him.

“There are a lot of things we don’t do the same, Haywood, but everyone knows how to improvise,” Michael replies. Ryan frowns. He’d really like there to be a minimum of improvisation. His job is great when people don’t do that.

“Where are we heading after it’s done?”

“You could come back here,” Ray offers. “It’s been a while since we’ve gotten drunk and played Super Mario until four in the morning.”

“We can’t,” Ryan says before Michael can agree. He gets a glare for it. “If anyone is on our trail, they’ll know we came back here and you’ll both be targets, too. I’d rather not."

Michael regards him warily for a moment, then pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts typing. “I have a safehouse in Pittsburgh. I haven’t been there in a few months, so it should be clear of any parasites. It’s a few hours of driving, but if we move fast we can make it before tomorrow.”

“I’d like to get a few hours of sleep before you run off and take three more jobs, so it’s a good plan so far,” Ryan replies. “We need to go as soon as you’re done here if you want to make six-thirty.”

“This is almost as good as Chinese food,” Michael says, waving a mozzarella stick in his direction to flip him the bird. “Fuck you.”

“Take me out to dinner first, Michael, please.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Are you sure we have the right room? This guy is a little more than late,” Ryan murmurs. They’ve been camping on the roof for almost an hour, now. Jones had told him to stay inside, but he had not done that. Just pick a few locks and don’t breathe when hotel employees pass within a three-meter radius, and you’re a professional. A glance at his watch tells him it’s a few minutes past seven-thirty. Sonntag should have been in his room an hour ago. Something has to be wrong. “Gavin? Anything?”

“Nothing in your area, Rye.”

“What did I say about improvising?” Jones hisses, eyes on room 242’s window through the scope on his Barrett. “He could be having a good time at the hotel bar. Fucking bitches, getting money. Let him have his fun. It’s the least we can do before I shoot his ass full of lead.”

“Shooting his ass probably isn’t the best way to get this done.”

“Sometimes they aren’t facing the window.”

Something rustles the curtain in room 242. The light comes on. Ryan whispers, “Is that him?” Michael shushes him immediately, adjusting his hold on the rifle as the curtains are pushed open. A man stands in the window, surveying the courtyard below, then the sunset in front of him through thick-rimmed glasses.

“It’s him,” Michael replies, going stiller than Ryan thinks possible from a man with a temper from the seventh circle of Hell. Everything is quiet for a moment.

Gavin whispers in his ear, “Is he about to shoot a guy?”

“Yes,” Ryan replies. “Shut up and let him focus, Gav.”

Michael leans in a little more, holds the position for a second, and lets it ring. One shot. Glass shatters, Sonntag (what’s left of him, at least) falls away from the remnants of the window, and blood splatters behind him. Michael stares for a moment, then shifts to a kneel. Sonntag isn’t going anywhere.

Michael hands over the Barrett as he stands, and Ryan isn’t nearly prepared for the weight of the rifle. Luckily for him, it’s out of his hands as soon as Michael is standing again. Unluckily for both of them, an alarm begins to sound in the hotel.

“Some idiot must have pulled the fire alarm,” Michael sighs, seeming not nearly concerned enough about this as he dismantles his rifle and packs his bag back up. “We need to get out before emergency services shows up.”

“How long does that usually take?”

“Here, I give it about five minutes. We’ve got plenty of time.”

Ryan is not convinced. That definitely does not sound like “plenty of time.” That sounds like not good. He hears himself nervous-laugh. “I can’t believe I just helped a client kill a man.”

“You didn’t do shit,” Michael replies, standing. His bag is slung over his shoulder and he’s already taking steps toward the stairwell door. “I would have done it with or without you, Haywood. You just came along for the ride.”

Ryan needs some Valium.

He and Michael make their way down the stairs to the third-floor access point. There is a commotion in the hallway. Michael pushes through into the crowd of people anyway, extending a hand to Ryan when he realises just how crowded it is. People are pushing for the fire exits, some more panicked than others. Only a few are in pajamas, though they definitely interrupted a shower or two. Gavin offers an update on police response rate every so often. Ryan tries not to think about having to explain himself to the cops.

They make it to the parking lot before they start hearing the sirens and sprint down the sidewalk to the car, vague darkness covering them enough that the police don’t even bat an eyelash in their direction. Michael heaves open the back as Ryan moves around the car to climb into the driver’s seat and turn the engine over. By the time he’s ready to go, Michael is in the passenger seat, finger on the window adjustment buttons. “Is this glass bulletproof?”

Ryan tries not to look at him, turning to back out of the parking space instead. “Why?”

“Just wondering.”

Two more cruisers pull into the parking lot and block the exit. Ryan swears under his breath. “Tactical manoeuvre time.”

Gavin laughs. “Hey, Ryan, remember that time you wrote on-”

“Yes, Gavin, I remember. You can tell Michael the story later. Right now I’d like to get us out of here before the police demand my identification and I get stuck in a conference call with everyone we know and love for the duration of one of Geoff’s shits.”

“I heard that,” Geoff calls from somewhere on Gavin’s side of the line. “Twenty minutes isn’t nearly enough time for a conference call, dickhead.”

“I want to hear this story,” Michael says, absolutely with the intention of blackmail. Ryan hums.

“I was a wannabe-vandal as a teenager. Graffitied a police vehicle with a very vulgar message.”

“Was it a penis?”

“Yeah. It said ‘eat shit’. I've moved on.”

Ryan drives slowly to the parking lot entrance to go out the wrong way, choosing not to respond. It’s painful. “More cops on our nine,” Michael says.

“If anyone tries to stop us, pretend to be confused about where we are. I’m the husband that refuses to ask for directions. You get to yell. You’re really good at that.”

“What? I’m not the wife - you’re the one that showed up on my fucking doorstep, mister.”

“Yes, but _I’m_ driving, so I get to pick.”

“Fuck you, Haywood. One more word out of you and I’m kicking you out, taking this piece of shit, and scrapping it for a chicken-bacon Five Dollar Footlong.”

“You think so?”

“God, they really do argue like a married couple,” Geoff says. “Someone get them some goddamn housewarming shit. These bitches need a Crock-Pot.”

“I need GPS,” Ryan says, leaning forward to look around a few street-leaning trees. He’d really appreciate it if this city would invest in some gardening tools. And also if Geoff would shut up.

“Hold your fucking horses, I need to call Joel,” Michael replies, phone already in hand. Okay, they’re probably going the right way. They’ll know when someone starts yelling.

“Hey, you’re on speakerphone,” Michael announces to whoever’s on the line. He turns his phone to type something.

“Aw, I can’t whisper sweet nothings in your ear?” Ray says, managing to sound mildly disappointed.

“We can do that later. Tell Joel the hit’s done? We got out of there probably without the police even looking at us, maybe.”

“Will do,” Ray replies. “You can’t see it, but I’m saluting. Text me when you get there?”

“Roger. Over and out.”

Michael places the phone in the console about two seconds later. “Turn around? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I told you I needed the GPS!”

“I thought bodyguards were supposed to know directions or some shit! We’re supposed to be going west, asshole - you’ve been going fucking _north_ this entire time!”

“Listen, I don’t think this relationship is going to work if you keep yelling at me like this. I’m fragile, Michael.”

“Bullshit.”

_________________

 

“How many people have you killed, Ryan?”

“I lost count a long time ago. It doesn’t happen on every assignment, but I’ve got a good few under my belt. Your turn.”

“I used to have a tally, when I was young and thought it mattered. Stopped bothering when I hit one hundred. Kind of pointless when you’re losing track anyways.”

 

________________

 

Michael is asleep in the passenger seat when Ryan decides to pull into a restaurant. He’s tired, and hungry, and he knows Michael is definitely both. He’d rather drive neither hungry nor tired, but hungry is the only one he can fix right now.

“Hooligan’s?” Michael says when Ryan taps him awake. He sounds like he’s had one too many. “This place has good everything.”

“I knew that. Come on,” Ryan leans against the door to watch Michael disentangle himself from the seat belt. By the time his feet are on the ground, Ryan is ready to take a nap right there. Michael staggers past him toward the restaurant. “How are those sea legs feeling?”

“I had a dream about stabbing you in the dick.”

“Next time, have a dream about learning to walk. You could use a refresher,” Ryan turns to keep pace. Michael stubs his shoe on air and staggers again. Ryan’s hand hovers for a moment, just in case, but he’s good. They’re good.

“Do you always shit on your clients, Ryan?” Michael wonders out loud, walking mostly upright now. “Doesn’t seem very professional to me.”

“I had one client shit himself at a fireworks show because he thought someone was shooting at him,” Ryan says, reaching past Michael to open the door and following him inside. 

“Oh fuck, you might know shit,” Michael says, a little more quietly as the hostess approaches them. “Like the finger to your ear thing? The fuck does that shit mean?”

“Trade secret.”

“Follow me,” the hostess says cheerfully, having too-conveniently just finished checking the seating chart. She doesn’t bat an eye in their direction. Michael bumps into Ryan a few steps into the walk to their table. Ryan looks down, confused, and Michael scrunches his nose up at him and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

The hostess indicates their booth with a sweep of her arm, recites something no one gives a shit about, and leaves the menus on the table, but Ryan is too busy watching Michael practically fall into the booth to hear any of it. He takes the other side when he’s pretty sure he isn’t going to get kicked for trying.

“You’re cute when you’re tired,” Ryan says as Michael lays his head on his arms, now folded on the tabletop. He might be joking. He doesn’t know yet.

“You’re an asshole, always,” Michael mumbles into the fabric of his sweatshirt. Okay, Ryan could definitely, really go for a nap right now. This isn’t fair.

He’s glancing at his watch for the third time when their server shows up. Ryan orders a coffee with a grimace and Michael says something about barbecue sauce, then hot chocolate. Ryan closes his eyes and doesn’t open them again until his coffee is in front of him and Michael is frowning at him from across the table.

“Something stuck in my teeth?” Ryan meets his gaze. Michael’s frown turns kind of annoyed.

“You need to go to sleep, dude. Want me to drive?”

“I got a coffee for a reason. It’s only three more hours,” Ryan replies. He realises how long three hours is and cringes a little. Michael pulls out his phone. “I’ll stop for more coffee if I need it.”

“I landed myself a really shitty accident driving tired, once. Hefty hospital bill, too,” Michael says. He slides his phone across the table so Ryan can see the new GPS stop. “Candlewood Suites. Fifteen minutes away. It’s late, but we can walk in, see what they have left.”

Ryan thinks for a moment. Stares into his coffee. He’ll have to beep Gavin. “Fine, but we’re out of the parking lot by six.”

“Disgusting. Deal.”

 

________________

 

“I’m driving,” Michael says, holding out a hand for the keys as they approach the car. He narrows his gaze in Ryan’s direction when they don’t immediately land in his hand.

“I just had a coffee. I’ll be fine for fifteen minutes,” Ryan replies, pulling the keys from his pocket but making no move to hand them over. They’ll stay safely with him, thanks. “Weren’t we just talking about car accidents?”

“Yeah, car accidents that happened a decade and a half ago, fucker,” Michael says, hands on his hips as he comes to a stop in front of the car. Ryan tries to step around him. Michael decides to be in the way. Asshole. “You’ve driven all day, and you’re driving in the morning while I take a fucking power nap in the passenger seat, so fork ‘em over.”

When Ryan doesn’t budge, Michael takes matters into his own hands. He lunges for the keys, snatching them before Ryan really knows what’s going on, and in the same movement, Ryan has him in a mildly uncomfortable hold. The keys clatter to the ground. They both dive for them.

Somehow, Michael ends up straddling Ryan on the pavement, hand covering the keys in Ryan’s. He frowns, looks a little confused. This was not part of the plan. They freeze for a moment. Breathe. What is...who? How?

An old couple exits the restaurant and suddenly Michael is on his feet, keys in hand, sprinting to the other side of the car. Ryan doesn’t really know what’s going on.

Michael is grinning at him, hair sticking out in a lot of directions (no, Haywood, he’s not fucking cute, and there’s nothing stunning about wrestling in a diner parking lot at eleven PM) when Ryan makes it to his feet and opens the car door. He resigns himself to fifteen minutes of gloating and presses a button on his watch as he climbs into the seat.

“I’m here,” Gavin says in his ear a moment later, a little out of breath.

“You could have just beeped me back and gotten to us later. Not even the urgency beep.”

“I was a bit preoccupied,” Gavin pauses for emphasis. Michael starts backing out of the spot, and Ryan buckles up as an afterthought. “But I’m here. What’s up?”

“We’re stopping at a hotel for the night. Too late to get to the safehouse before midnight, anyways,” Ryan squints at the GPS. “Candlewood Suites. Fifteen minutes. I’ll beep in when we get there.”

“Cool. I’ll be...here.”

“Whatever. Go make out with Geoff.”

Michael snorts as the line goes mute again. “Actually?”

“Gavin will make out with anybody for two dollars and a beer,” Ryan replies. “But yes.”

“I feel like this happens a lot.”

“I usually pretend I have no idea,” Ryan sighs. “He thinks he’s smooth.”

They practically stumble into the hotel lobby around eleven thirty. The reception clerk seems unamused until she sees them approach the desk, then she smiles like it hurts. “How can I help you?”

“We’d like a suite, please,” Ryan says. She immediately turns to her computer.

“We have a smoking queen studio and a non-smoking queen suite,” Still cheerful. Still in pain.

Ryan looks to Michael, who shrugs. “Don’t look at me. I’m quitting.”

“Not the smoking. The one bed,” Ryan says, and receives a blank stare.

“I’m sure we’ll survive, Haywood.”

“We’ll take the suite,” Ryan says through a sigh and reaches for the front pocket of his bag to fish around for his wallet, but Michael is holding a card out to the clerk before she can finish asking for it.

“I’m not paying for the guard, so I’ll pay for the body,” Michael winks in his direction when the clerk returns his card. Ryan stares. Decides it isn’t worth his time. Takes the room key before Michael has a chance to put his card away and is met with a gentle kick to the shin as he passes him on the way to the elevators.

“Third floor,” Ryan says, stepping into the elevator after Michael. He beeps Gavin a few times as the doors close. A few seconds later, his watch beeps back. He looks to Michael. “Set an alarm on your phone. I wake up early.”

“No wonder you’ve been asleep since six. You’re a fucking maniac.”

“What was that about shooting people for a living?” Ryan asks. The elevator doors open with a ding, and they step out into the hallway. Ryan leads the way down the hall.

“Shut up,” Michael replies, maybe a little aggressively. “You do the same shit. They just call it protection so it's legal."

Ryan elects not to speak again until they’re standing in front of room 322. He slides the keycard and opens the door, switching on the lights. The door closes behind them as he rounds on Michael. Does his best to stare him down. “Don’t compare us, Jones. Some of us are professionals, some of us are hitmen, and some of us don’t know where the line is. Get your shit straight before you get yourself killed.”

“I’ve been doing this shit as long as you have, Haywood,” Michael’s eyes are dangerous, voice loose as he sheds his shirt. It throws Ryan for a loop for a moment. He doesn’t realise he’s staring until Michael grimaces in his direction. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

“Why didn’t you bring clothes from the house in Trenton?”

“I thought we would be at the safehouse tonight, smartass. No point in lugging around a second useless fucking bag. I’ll change when we get there tomorrow.”

Ryan shakes his head, dumping his bag on the desk chair near the door and unzipping it to find something appropriate. “I don’t get the improvising thing.”

“You wouldn’t, you goddamn _professional,_ you.”

Ryan comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later to find Michael already asleep, lamp still on and phone fallen to his chest. The comforter is crumpled as if he gave up halfway through trying to crawl into bed. He’s stolen half of the other pillow, too, but Ryan can’t bring himself to care. The bags under his eyes are permanent. Michael’s might be open to discussion.

Ryan fixes the blankets, scoots until he has room for enough pillow without disturbing Michael’s claim, and leans over him to switch the lamp off. The room dark, now, he closes his eyes, sends Gavin a quick dash-dash-dot, and is asleep before he gets a “goodnight” back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: (Non-major character) Off-screen suicide. It is phrased carefully; proceed with caution nonetheless. Important to the plot, but further mentions are minimal.

Waking up with Michael next to him is not something Ryan is anticipating. His heart skips a beat for a moment when he realises the warm thing beside him is a human being, living and breathing and a lot closer to him now than when they had fallen asleep. He’s curled up into Ryan’s side, almost.

Fuck. It’s cute. And also really unprofessional, that he wants to do something about it, but something (maybe Gavin and Geoff constantly tongueing each other) tells Ryan he shouldn’t bother worrying.

He manages to slide out of bed mostly without disturbing Michael, says fuck it, it’s four in the morning, and goes to the gym in his pajamas.

When he comes out of the shower an hour and a half later, Michael is trudging sleepily over to the window to throw open the curtains. The light that comes through is pitiful. He seems unimpressed.

“You’re up early for someone who’s going back to sleep.”

“Fuck you. I’m taking a shower.”

They don’t make it out of the parking lot by six. They grab stuff from the continental breakfast and make it out to the car at five fifty-five, but there’s a card on the windshield, tucked under one of the wipers. Michael wonders aloud if it’s a ticket, somehow, but Ryan knows better. He picks up the note. It’s Sonntag’s business card. Flips it over.

“Two - Adam Kovic. Three - Lawrence Sonntag. Who’s next on your list?” Ryan reads to Michael. Watches him throw his bag into the backseat. “Who’s number one?”

“Our luck. Two in a row,” Michael grimaces.

“Who’s number one, Michael?” Ryan asks again, a little more forcefully this time.

“Didn’t your boss tell you why you’re here?” Michael scoffs when Ryan stares blankly. Looks back at the hotel’s entrance. “Of fucking course not. It’s a story - I’ll tell you somewhere a little less sensitive.”

Ryan frowns. Decides to let it go momentarily, at least. Presses a button on his watch twice. Gavin appears in record time. “Are you compromised?”

“We found a note on the car a few minutes ago. Doing a basic check now,” Ryan replies, moving around the car to pop the hood. He’s got his head in the engine when Michael deigns to speak.

“What are you looking for? Trackers?”

“Trackers. Bugs. There are only so many places you can put them, even on an SUV. A basic check is all we’ll need.”

Ryan finds nothing on the outside of the car, and even more nothing inside. Michael tries to help and is temporarily alarmed by the heating elements beneath the front seats. Ryan tells him he’s an idiot. Gavin laughs about it.

“We’re clear,” Ryan says, stepping back to give the outside a final once-over. “We’re heading out. ETA three hours.”

“Roger,” Gavin replies. “Beep me then.”

“Will do.”

They’re out of the parking lot by six fifteen. Ryan continues not to suspect anything until he watches a car take a turn a little too sharply behind them. The GPS tells him to make a turn. The car behind them follows. Again. The fourth time, Ryan goes straight instead of left. The driver of the other car follows the lane and turns off onto a side street, but speeds up and puts on their right directional to turn again.

“We’re being followed,” Ryan says when Gavin tunes in. “I’m going to try to shake them before we leave the city. I’ll go around again if I have to.”

“Do these guys not have anything better to do?” Michael asks. “How did they find us in the first place?”

“Six hours is more than enough time to figure out where we ended up if they have the right contacts or an in-house hacker. We used a card to pay for the hotel instead of cash. Easy to track us down, get something in there so we know they’re around. Follow us out. I’m not really surprised.”

Ryan feels Michael giving him a dirty look. “You could have told me to use cash. I still have some rolling around in my bag from the last hit I took with Ray.”

“You didn’t have your bag, I was busy being baffled by your completely unnecessarily sexual and unprofessional joking, and the clerk had already taken your card by the time I got over it,” Ryan replies as the car pulls out behind them.

“If you want me to stop fucking acting like I enjoy your company-”

“Behind us again. Closer this time,” Ryan announces.

“If you take a right in a few hundred metres and pull into the car dealership right after that, you might have them,” Gavin supplies cheerfully.

“Stop getting yourselves into trouble, dickheads,” Geoff says, probably leaning over Gavin’s shoulder. “I’m too tired for this shit.”

“So is Michael,” Ryan says, glancing at the rearview mirror. “He’s cranky this morning.”

“You woke me up singing in the _fucking_ shower at five in the morning, Haywood. No shit, genius. I didn’t ask to wake up to ‘Bitch, I’m Madonna’ and I definitely didn’t ask to hear you rapping some Nicki Minaj _bullshit._ ”

“Ouch,” Geoff says. Ryan makes the right turn, then another into the dealership parking lot. He pulls behind the first row of cars and watches their buddies in the other car speed down the road. He lets out a breath when they turn off onto a side street. Turns to look at Michael for a moment.

“I’ll have you know Madonna used to be a goddess,” He backs out of the cars and pulls close to the road. Getting to the safehouse in time for his afternoon soaps would be good. “Looks like we’re good, Gavvers.”

“Fuck,” Michael says after the beep. “These guys really don’t like it when we kill their friends.”

“Speaking of that,” Ryan begins, and he hears Michael blow out a breath as he turns back onto the six-lane. “We’ve killed three of their guys, now. I’ve only been around for two of them. Care to explain?”

Michael leans against the window. “A few weeks ago, your bosses contacted me to put out a hit on someone who had been taking out their agents. De Armas, I think. They couldn’t find him in the system, couldn’t get a lead on him that went anywhere. He was protected by a lot of people. They decided they needed someone with a little less legal responsibility. Heyman is one of their ex-agents, knew I would take the job, so we made arrangements, and I took the hit.

“Everything went fine, I killed the guy dead and got my money, but I don’t work for a group, or with a group, or whatever, so they tracked me the fuck down. I got cornered a few days later, shit on pretty good, somehow got the hell out of there alive. I’ve been on the move for a week or two, now, but Joel is a good friend of mine, so I went to Trenton to take that hit. I was supposed to take Sonntag out a few days ago, but that shithead was watching me, so I couldn’t go anywhere without risking a fucking ambush.”

Ryan thinks for a moment. “They’ve already sent more after us, so I don’t think they plan on giving up. This is number four. They’re in it until we’re dead, probably.”

“Sounds like a great time to me,” Michael yawns. They pass a sign that says something about a prison. “It’s nap time. Wake me up when we get there or you pass out at the wheel.”

“As long as you promise not to bite my fingers off.”

“No.”

 

________________

 

Michael wakes up briefly at one point about half an hour in. “Where are we?”

“Signs say Carlisle.”

“Fuck, we’re not even close,” Silence for a few seconds. “Ryan, how long have you been doing this?”

“A few years. Why?”

“I don’t know. You know what you’re doing. I’m not dead yet,” He sighs. “For once in my fucking life, I feel safe. It’s a goddamn miracle.”

Ryan doesn’t say anything for a long time. “Michael, where did you grow up?”

No answer for a while. Ryan thinks Michael’s fallen asleep again until he answers through a yawn. “Some shitty little town in New Jersey. I’ve been on my own for a long time. Moved to Trenton as a kid. Started on petty theft to live. Joined a gang for a while - they taught me how to shoot. I got my first job at sixteen.”

“Your first hit?”

“I stopped tallying when I was twenty.”

Ryan lets it settle for a moment. “You didn’t have a choice.”

“I did. I did it anyways.”

“You were a kid.”

“I was a kid that knew looking tough got you places. I never thought I would make it this far, thought I would get killed sooner or later...I’m finally here, Ryan. All that shit caught up to me,” Michael is quiet for a moment. “Thanks, anyways.”

“You’ll be fine,” Ryan doesn’t know how to comfort him, isn’t sure it’s possible. This might be something he needs to figure out himself. In the meantime, Ryan will joke about it because there isn’t much else he can think to do. “They gave me this assignment for a reason, Michael. The handcuffs.”

He realises Michael is asleep again when he receives nothing but an unintelligible mumble in reply. He chances a glance over. Sees Michael curled up in the seat. Wishes he had a blanket in the back.

 

________________

 

“Wake up, Michael. Rest stop time.”

“Five more minutes.”

“We’re leaving in five minutes. I watched you chug an energy drink this morning. Out.”

Michael fixes him with a solid stink eye, but climbs out of the car anyways. He wavers a little once both feet are on the pavement, stretching and almost punching Ryan in the face as he does it. “That is a good dog.”

Ryan turns to face the restrooms. It’s an older rest stop, clearly, since it doesn’t have a pile of stores on top of it, but he hadn’t exactly been able to see that before he pulled in. A row of trees blocks the noise from the highway, kind of. Only one other car is there. It’s almost nice, except for the “good dog” that’s currently taking a shit in the grassy area. Ryan thinks that might be a good dog anyway.

When they come out of the pretty weirdly-shaped building after Michael gets another energy drink from the vending machine (“I get it. Chugging it was a bad idea. I won’t inhale it this time, mom.”), Ryan can immediately tell something is wrong for a lot of reasons.

One is that there is a man walking toward them with the safety off on his gun. Curly hair disheveled, eyes wild, stance tight. He doesn’t look very sane.

“You fucking killed him,” the man grinds out, unable to focus on either Michael or Ryan. His gaze flickers in either direction. His voice is hoarse. “Why?”

“Sonntag?” Michael says. The man’s gun drifts a little in his direction. Ryan realises his pistol is in the car. Idiot.

“Adam,” he replies with difficulty. “Adam Kovic. He was assigned to watch you. Why did you kill him?”

“He pulled his gun on us,” Michael offers. The gun is suddenly trained shakily on his forehead. Wrong answer.

“Did he shoot?” His teeth are clenched, now, finger tight on the trigger.

“I killed him before he could,” Ryan says, voice low.

“He had a fucking family. A husband,” he says. Ryan sees the ring, now. A simple band. It doesn’t make it any less important.

“I know,” Ryan says, shifting to stand directly in his line of sight. Braces himself. “I’m sorry.”

The man’s eyes close, face downturned. Falls to his knees. What little composure he has crumbles and he sobs at Ryan’s feet, peppering the pavement. The gun is cradled against his chest, now. It’s time to go. Ryan’s hand finds Michael’s back and he pushes him in the direction of the car, following closely.

They’re about to merge onto the highway when they hear the gunshot. Michael jumps, dropping his still-unopened drink on the floor with a clunk. “What happened?” He sounds like he’s not sure he wants to know, or maybe he already does.

Ryan looks in the rearview and decides not to tell him.

Instead, he pulls the car over and beeps his watch twice. Waits a few seconds.

“Are you compromised?” Gavin says again, maybe even worried this time. Two urgency calls in one day is rare, even for Ryan.

“Someone found us at a rest stop. I was wearing my vest but I didn’t have my pistol on me. No civilians. Send in cleanup.”

“I can get you the Baltimore team within an hour, sirens on. Need medical?”

“No, but I need to do an advanced check on the SUV, so if you could stay on the line, that would be great.”

Ryan opens the trunk of the SUV for the first time in a long time, takes out a toolbox and some collapsible cones. He turns to Michael, who has followed him to the back. “Do you want to take the wheels off or be traffic control?”

He looks confused about both. “Cones,” he says, and sprints off in the direction of the stop’s entrance as soon as they’re in his hands. He keeps a good distance between himself and the parking lot by walking the other side of the trees, Ryan notices as he heaves a jack out of the back of his car.

He’s on his knees and halfway through prying off the first hubcap when Gavin speaks again. “How is Michael taking it?”

Ryan does a double-take when he looks toward the entrance. Michael is standing a few feet away from the body, expression unreadable at this distance, but it doesn’t look good. “Not well,” Ryan is on his feet and at Michael’s side in thirty seconds, screwdriver lost somewhere under the car in his hurry. This might be the part where things go wrong.

“I’ve seen a lot of shit, Ryan, but this is… _fuck,_ ” he says, voice thick. “This is new. I’m not...I didn’t know.”

“Everyone has a story, Michael. It’s not your job to know them.”

Michael turns to him. “Fuck that. I’ve been killing people for fifteen goddamn years, Ryan. Two hundred and fifty-three. How many fucking families have I ruined? I pretended it was fine until I pretended it wasn’t me anymore,” His eyes are wet. “How many more years do I have before I realise I ruined my life?”

Ryan reaches up and mutes his microphone. Closes the distance between Michael and himself. “You made a shitty decision when you were a kid. Everyone does, but you made it work for you for fifteen years. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in that.”

“I don’t know where to start, Ryan,” Michael sighs. Clears his throat when it catches. Shakes his head, eyes on his feet. “I don’t know where this shit ends.”

“There are people that can help you,” Ryan says. Michael smiles weakly, wryly. 

“I don’t know how to get help,” he replies, tries to clear his throat again. Meets Ryan’s gaze. “I don’t have skills. I’m not fresh out of high school, Ryan. I don’t even have a diploma.”

“You’re a smart kid, Michael. You can figure it out,” Ryan almost says “We can figure it out,” but he realises he’s only assigned to Michael’s case for a few more days. Standard switch since he works under Burns, but he’d still like to leave that stone unturned, for now. They have other things to worry about. He smiles, waves a hand in the direction of the car. “Help me with the hubcaps?” Smooth, Haywood.

“Sure,” Michael sniffles, makes an unimpressed noise. Follows Ryan and takes the screwdriver when it’s handed to him.

“They all need to come off so we can check the wheel wells for parasites. Have you ever changed a tire?”

It turns out Michael has changed a few tires in his time. Gavin gets excited about it when Ryan unmutes himself. He hooks the unit up to the sound system of the SUV when Gavin won’t stop trying to talk to both of them at the same time.

“Here’s one,” Ryan says, shining a flashlight up into the front passenger-side wheel well. He reaches up past the inner fender. Pulls out a black box. “Magnetically attached to the back inner corner of the wheel well,” he says for Gavin’s benefit. Michael crawls over and leans around the front of the car to see it.

“What am I looking at?”

“Standard tracking device. Good to put it up here, if you have enough time with the car, and they definitely would have at the hotel,” Ryan explains. Tosses it to Michael. Takes the hammer from the toolbox and offers it. “Usually we do something a lot more sophisticated with these, but we don’t have a lot of options out here, so we’re going to smash it with a hammer and throw it into the woods. Care to do the honors?”

Michael hammers it to death pretty easily as Ryan feels inside the rest of the wheel well, just in case. Most people wouldn’t be stupid enough to put two trackers in the same place, but he’s not going to be one of the people that’s stupid enough to put the wheel back on with a tracker still under his fender.

“We just need to pop the other three tires off to check for trackers, then we’ll be good to go,” he announces when Michael comes back from throwing the dearly departed tracker into the woods.. He is immediately fixed with a glare.

“I have to use the bathroom. I’ll be back when you’re done.”

“Ryan’s got a crush,” Gavin says a few seconds later. Michael is just reaching for the building’s front door. Ryan turns the volume down.

“Every time I beep you you’re making out with Ramsey,” Ryan replies. “Someday I’m going to be dying in an alley and you’re going to have his dick up your ass.”

“That was one time, Rye,” Ryan can hear the pouty face. “‘Sides, Geoff and I talk about it. You guys are like primary schoolers.”

“We’ve got a lot of shit going on right now, Free.”

“You can’t just faff about and hope it works out, Rye! You’ve got to _do something about it,_ ” Gavin is practically yelling, now. “Geoff! Tell Ryan what to do!”

“He’s right,” Geoff says. “Don’t be a bitch.”

“I’m pretty sure Burnie would-”

“Burns doesn’t give a shit, Haywood. Be an adult. Don’t let it interfere. That’s all he wants,” Geoff replies. He gets serious for a moment. “If Gavin and I can make it work, it’ll be a breeze for you two. Go for it, kid. We’re rooting for you.”

“Anyways, cleanup’s almost there. Twenty minutes,” Gavin announces cheerfully. Geoff snorts.

“I need to get these tires done,” Ryan sighs. Sits down on the pavement again. He’s tightening the lug nuts on the last one when Michael comes back.

“Nice of you to show up, Jones.”

“Fuck off, Haywood. I had to call Ray. He’s like some fucking mother hen or some shit. Always wants to know if I’m alive or wasting away or whatever. He’d probably mail me Olive Garden breadsticks if I asked nicely enough.”

“At least someone is taking care of you,” Ryan side-eyes him. He looks tired as all hell. “We’re clear. Once I get the jack lowered and everything in the back where it belongs, we can head out.”

“We don’t have to wait for cleanup?”

“We’ve done our jobs. They’ll do theirs. Also...” Michael crosses his arms and looks expectant as Ryan takes a moment to lower the jack and pull it out from under the car. “We can’t go to Pittsburgh anymore. We have to find somewhere else.”

“ _What?_ ” Michael looks dangerous when he’s annoyed. His body language says “okay, explain” but his eyes says “strangulation”.

“We have no idea how much information they have. If they were listening in on what we said to Gavin. We need to go somewhere else, or we risk getting caught up in another gunfight, a real one this time.”

Michael frowns. “This is bullshit.”

“It’s what we’ve got, Michael,” Ryan says. “Work with me, here.”

Michael looks like he wants to argue for a moment. Gives up. “I have a place in Colombus. Another few hours from here.”

“Pull it up on the GPS before we leave and I might take you out to brunch.”

Ryan is Tetris-ing everything into the back of the SUV when two white vans pull into the parking lot. He drops the toolbox in. Shuts the door. Jogs to greet them.

“Haywood,” Ryan says, shaking the supervisor’s hand. His hair is an interesting shade of blue. Green?

“Dooley,” the supervisor replies, smiling. He surveys the area, from the pavement at their feet to the cones someone else puts in Ryan’s hands. Speaks with a slight accent. Boston or New York, Ryan thinks. “What do you have here?”

“There are a lot of people after my client. You could say it’s an issue,” Ryan says, turning to wave at Michael, who is leaning against the back of the car, looking rather unimpressed. “We’re on our way out, but I wanted to let you know that there was a GPS on us and it was playing for the other team.”

“We’ll keep it in mind,” Dooley says. He turns to his team, leaving Ryan to find his way back over to the car and yelling directions Ryan doesn’t understand.

“Hey there,” Michael says when he approaches. “We going anywhere any time soon?”

“We’re going now,” Ryan says, leaning against the car shoulder-first. “You in a hurry to get anywhere?”

Michael scoffs. “I’m in a hurry to power nap for another hour, chug that Red Bull, and get some lunch.”

“It’s nine AM.”

“Call it whatever you want, Haywood. I’d eat lava cake any time.”

They get in the car. Ryan spends at least fifteen seconds adjusting the rearview mirror. The GPS is already trying to tell him where to go - this is going to be a long four hours. Ryan doesn’t want to do this. He glances over to the passenger seat. Michael is curled up, reading something on his phone. His nose scrunches up for a second. He might be confused.

Okay, Haywood, give yourself that pure bullshit.

Do it for Michael.


	4. Chapter 4

Ryan elects not to stop again for as long as possible for a variety of reasons. Michael’s asleep. Doesn’t need to use the bathroom. Doesn’t want to get killed. About three hours in, he can’t feel his ass anymore and there’s an itch he can’t scratch behind his ear, so he pulls into a rest area. This one looks like it’s seen civilisation sometime in the past century.

Michael wakes up groggy. Again. Kind of. He doesn’t actually wake up until he comes out of the bathroom, and by then Ryan has been smelling pizza for a few minutes. Danger zone.

“Something smells good,” Michael says, wandering further into the building.

Fuck it. Pizza for lunch.

“Pizza for lunch?” Ryan asks, nodding toward the storefront. He isn’t sure why he bothered when Michael gives him The Look.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Michael laughs. “Fuck yeah, pizza for brunch. I’m going to eat every garlic breadstick in the goddamn state.”

They’re on the road again half an hour later. Michael has a pile of breadsticks to keep him going. He pulls out the unopened energy drink as soon as they’re back on the highway and opens it. It fizzes. A lot.

“Ah, fuck,” he grumbles, making a feeble attempt to clean up the mess with his shirt.

“My _leather seats,_ Michael.”

“Get over it, Haywood,” he replies, waving the drink in Ryan’s direction. “I bet you get this shit detailed once a month.”

“Only when it needs it,” Ryan glances in Michael’s direction. He doesn’t want to think about the energy drink soaking into his carpet. “Now it does.”

“You’ll have something to remember me by until then, asshole,” Michael says, still triumphant. He hums. Steals a napkin from his garlic breadsticks. “How long? I mean, are you here for, or...on my case, or whatever.”

Ryan adjusts his hold on the steering wheel. Grimaces internally. “Until Monday. If there’s still an issue, they’ll switch me out with someone else.”

Michael is silent for a moment. He pokes at a spot on his jeans. “Do you think there will be?”

“I hope not, but,” Ryan glances at the GPS. Forty minutes. Thank fucking Christ. “At this rate, we can’t tell. We might be good at this safehouse for a while, but, you know, there’s also a lot of people with guns after you, so we really shouldn’t stay more than a night or two.”

Silence again, then, “Did I mention this is bullshit? Fuck, I’ve never been shit on so hard.”

“You killed their informant. And that guy’s husband. And that other guy.”

“ _You_ killed that guy’s husband.”

“Someone kills one of my coworkers and I’d be pretty pissed, too,” Ryan offers.

“I guess,” Michael sounds unconvinced. “Usually when someone I know gets killed it’s ‘part of the business,’ or whatever. Most of the hits I take...we grieve the loss, but we respect a guy that can get a good shot in.”

Ryan shakes his head. Almost smiles. “Things are probably different when you have morals, Jones. We don’t like people who kill people. It makes things difficult.”

Michael shrugs. “I’m just doing my job, man.”

 _Don’t do it, Haywood._ He does it anyway. “Don’t you ever wish it wasn’t your job?”

“Sometimes,” Michael laughs. “I remember my first hit being a fucking nightmare and wonder why the dicks I volunteered to do that again.”

“I wouldn’t really call getting paid thousand of dollars volunteering,” Ryan counters. “Try working in a soup kitchen. That shit’ll culture you faster than you can say something about a pickle in a barrel.”

“Would be nice to be on the other side of the counter,” Michael muses. Ryan can hear him smiling. “Would also be nice to actually do something that isn’t chugging beer and playing shitty game knockoffs until six AM. Maybe I’ll donate time to an animal shelter. Hug some cats. Kiss some babies.”

“Make sure it's a shelter baby. Street babies won’t take it as well.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“I've done a lot of things in my time, Michael,” Ryan glances at the passenger seat. Michael is trying really hard not to spill more energy drink foam. It’s not working. “Kissing babies is not one of them. I was never meant to be a politician.”

“I think you would make a great politician. Rule with an iron fist, you know?”

“I tried running for class president in high school,” Ryan shakes his head. “After I graduated I got into some shady stuff. Wouldn't look very good on my resumé.”

Michael gasps. “Did you do _drugs,_ Ryan Haywood?”

“Nah, actual shady stuff. I was kind of lost after school,” Ryan finds himself smiling at the road in front of him. “Geoff saved me before things got too bad, but man, I’d step foot in the White House and be a bloodstain on the floor in seconds.”

“Bad _ass_.”

Ryan spends the next twenty minutes listening to Michael hum along to the radio, mostly. Thinks briefly about whether or not this safehouse will have cable. He’d love to watch people light food on fire on purpose.

He surveys the property as they pull into the driveway. Trees separating them from neighbors on either side. A pretty gross-looking barn on the other end of the house. An unfortunately large backyard full of tall grass. The area is leaning a little on the suburban side of rural, but it’ll do. He beeps Gavin.

“We’re here. I’m setting security as soon as I get Jones inside,” he says. Gavin appeared immediately, this time. It’s a miracle.

“I’m not a fucking baby, Haywood, I’m sure I can open the door and turn the lights on all by myself,” Michael replies, pulling his bug-out from the back seat. Ryan ignores him.

“Doing a routine check of the property,” he announces, moving toward the side of the house. Looks to Michael. “Stay here.” Instead, Michael slams the front door behind him as Ryan avoids what might be a wasps’ nest on the gutter. No immediate screaming. He keeps walking.

He does one run around the house. Pauses to inspect a hole in the dirt two-thirds of the way. Retrieves his bag from the car and heads inside. Michael is standing on a chair clearly stolen from the table in the middle of the kitchen when he walks in, struggling to change a lightbulb.

Don’t do it, Haywood.

“Need some help?” he says instead, dropping his bag in front of the fridge.

“No,” Michael stretches to reach the socket. Ryan steps into range.

“I can reach,” he says. Michael grunts at him. Continues to struggle. “Michael.”

“Ryan. I’ve been changing this light bulb for years.” He leans back to get a better angle. Glances down at the table. Shifts like he’s going to stand on it.

“Don’t do that,” Ryan says. Michael sticks his tongue out at him and puts a foot on the table. They stare at each other for a moment.

Michael starts to move, but Ryan grabs him around the waist and pulls him a little roughly from the chair before he can get very far. Michael laughs as Ryan stumbles a step to lean against the counter. They stare at each other again. Breathe. Blink once before Ryan releases him. Lays a hand out expectantly. “Fork it over.”

Michael forks it over and rolls his eyes for flavor. Ryan steps onto the chair as soon as the light bulb is in his hand and reaches to install it with ease. He only goes a little blind when it comes on.

“You’re not supposed to leave it switched on when you do that,” Ryan says, squinting accusingly in Michael’s direction.

“My bad,” Michael replies, sounding not apologetic at all. He steps toward the living room. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“I’ll be outside. If any assassins show up in the bathroom, scream and I’ll be right over.”

There are no assassins and there is no screaming while Ryan installs his temp cameras. He wishes he had time to do the trench, but it’s almost four and at this rate they’ll be lucky if they’re here until noon tomorrow. He beeps Gavin again to let him know they’re set. Tosses his bag in the car. Opens the front door to the sound of a kids’ cartoon. Michael is on the couch, hair drying curly and beer in hand.

“This isn’t a good time to be drinking,” Ryan says.

“If anyone busts down the door I’ll be sure to find a coaster,” Michael doesn’t turn to watch him slide off his shoes and step onto the carpet, but he does pat the couch beside him. “Have a seat, buster. Stop standing in the corner like you’re waiting for everything to go wrong. A watched pot never boils, dude.”

Ryan reaches for the remote on his way by, but Michael half-growls at him so he decides he’d like to keep his fingers. “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, huh?”

“No,” Michael says, closing his eyes and sinking into the couch. “If you put anything else on I’ll probably cry again.” He cracks an eye open when Ryan stays silent a second too long. “Fuck off. No.”

“Okay, but-”

“No,” Michael's hand is suddenly covering his eyes. “Watch TV. Don't talk.”

“Michael-”

“You don't shut up and you're going to find yourself with something up your asshole that doesn't belong up your asshole.”

Ryan sits with him and watches shitty cartoons, or at least pretends to do that while he thinks. After a while he checks his phone. Stands up and moves onto the tile.

“What are you doing?” Michael asks, even though it should be obvious what he’s doing.

“Making dinner. We haven't had a real meal in days. Greasy diner food doesn't count.”

Michael clearly doesn't pause to think about their brief wrestling match in the diner parking lot, because immediately he asks, “You can cook, too? Am I on Prank’d right now?”

Ryan almost laughs. Pulls a pan out of the cabinet next to the oven and turns the stove on to heat instead. Michael wanders over to sit on the table as Ryan turns the faucet on and watches the pot fill.

“Are you a professional wrestler, too? Tell me your darkest secrets.”

“Contrary to popular belief, Jones, other people have lives, and pretty much none of it is ever relevant. You know I can cook because I’m making a meal. You know I can guard because it's my job. Normally, you would never know I take weekly yoga classes because you don't need to, but here we are. In three days, I’m going to be switched out with another agent. In five days, we won’t remember each other and there will have been no point in anything.”

Maybe it comes out rough, a little more harshly than Ryan originally intended. Michael is silent while Ryan inspects the pasta cabinet. He's pulling down a box when Michael says, “I dropped out of school in sixth grade because my parents couldn't support me. Left because they liked being high more than they liked paying bills.”

Ryan turns to lean against the stove. Puts the pasta down on the counter beside it. Faces Michael. “You were twelve.”

“I know,” Michael laughs like it's funny. “It was a good start. I got a lot of experience before my first hit. I had no idea what to do with the money when I got my first thousands. Tipped friends to book hotels for me until I was eighteen. Paid off my first house in cash.”

“You enjoy it?”

Michael looks to his hands and threads his words between his fingers. “I thought I did. It was nice to buy clothes. It was nice to go into a grocery store and come out with something. It was nice to take a warm shower,” He frowns. “I didn't know it was ruining me until I had a _client base_ and a _reputation_ and it was too late to turn around.”

“It's not.” Ryan isn't sure if he’s playing devil's advocate for Michael or telling the truth. Both. Neither. Maybe he's trying to relive something he thought he'd forgotten, or maybe he just wants to help. He knows, at least, that Michael needs help. Somehow.

“It's not the same, Ryan,” Michael says. Avoids his eyes. “Just because you got to be a bodyguard late in life doesn't mean I can drop my fifteen years of illegal fucking activity and become a store clerk. It's not that fucking easy.”

“Speak for yourself, Jones,” Ryan replies. Crosses his arms. “You’re good at what you do. There are programs out there that would love to have you regardless of your past.”

“What are you, some dishonorably discharged ex-military piece of shit?”

“I've killed a lot of people, Michael,” Ryan glances at the stove. Probably don't leave that on, maybe. “Not as many as you, but a gun didn’t find its way into my hands for a good few years.”

“Huh,” Michael slides off the table. “Alright. Are you saying you’re picking up what I’m putting down?”

“I am picking up what you’re putting down.”

“And your boss knows?” Michael frowns, now. His stance says “tell me more” and his eyes say “how the fuck does that work, if you’re fucking with me I’m going to stab you in your sleep”. Something like hope.

“They scouted me from a job,” Ryan says. “Apparently legal irresponsibility is a valuable asset.”

Michael shakes his head. “You, Haywood. I’m going to develop an aneurysm.”

“Don’t do that. The pasta will burn.”

After a fine feast of rigatoni and “100% grated style parmesan cheese” because that’s one of two things in the fridge and the salsa probably went bad a long time ago, Michael flops onto the couch to the theme song of some different but still incredibly shitty children’s show. Ryan sits beside him - this is his bed tonight, but he’s not going to kick Michael out of his own living room just yet.

“So, I’ve been telling you for the past few days that you have no idea what’s going on because you have a real job and you don’t know what anything I do is like,” Michael’s gaze is very on the TV. Pauses for a moment. “Sorry.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call myself an ex-assassin, Michael,” Ryan grimaces. “What you’re doing is a lot more _involved_ than most of my jobs ever were...I still keep a tally.”

“It’s not good for you.”

“I know.”

Ryan knows it's time to retire to one of the bedrooms upstairs when he glances left and Michael has become part of the couch and very asleep. He turns the TV off and considers waking Michael up to get him into a real bed, but the idea doesn't hold. Instead, he deposits Michael in the bedroom across from the landing at the top of the stairs and retreats back to the couch.

He pulls his tablet from his bag to check the security feeds, make sure none of them need fixing before he goes to sleep. While he's awake they aren't as important, but he's a heavy sleeper and also not a motion-detecting robot. When he's satisfied nothing is completely fucked, he tosses the tablet and pulls a blanket from the back of the couch. It's plenty wide and not long enough, but it'll do.

Ryan falls asleep wondering how long they have until someone else shows up and tries to kill his client. Michael. He keeps thinking and decides to stop doing that.

Three days.


	5. Chapter 5

Ryan comes back from his morning run - not only is four AM a good time to be outside, it’s a great time to survey the neighborhood - and runs through the shower. Michael uses two-in-one shampoo and conditioner. Bullshit. He has a shower radio, though, which would be great if it worked. The one in the kitchen does, he realises as he rifles through Michael’s cabinets for an attempt at breakfast. Pancake mix above the stove, a box of cereal on the other side of the sink. Maple syrup in the fridge makes his decision for him.

Michael comes downstairs around eight and stands in the kitchen for at least two minutes. Stares at the plate on the counter. He clearly doesn’t know what pancakes are.

“Why?” he asks. Ryan looks up from his coffee. Michael is confused, for some reason.

“Breakfast.”

“There’s no bacon.”

Ryan looks down to his tablet again. “Some of us can’t afford to consume pure grease for every meal. You also don’t have anything in your fridge.”

“Fuck you,” Michael says, reaching for the freezer door.

“Maybe later.”

“We should go shopping,” Michael squints against the cold when he opens the freezer. Reaches into the icebox.

“Maybe put some pants on, first. You’ll scare the kids,” Ryan isn’t really interested in going anywhere right now. It’s a matter of safety and also the chapter he’s halfway through in his ebook. He’s just getting to the steamy part in Generic Romance Novel #3.

Michael shuts the freezer and pops an ice cube. Talks around it. “So what you’re telling me is no bacon?”

“Eat the fucking pancakes, Jones.”

Michael has a good pile on his plate when he sits down beside Ryan, including roughly a gallon of maple syrup. Comments that the pancakes are weird, to which Ryan replies he had to substitute the fucking milk, idiot. Fiddles with his phone for a while as he eats, complaining once about sticky fingers, then returning to silence. Finishes his pancakes and stays there. Fiddles with his phone some more. Finally, Ryan puts his book - tablet? Book. He puts it down on the table.

“What’s wrong?” he says, and he’d love to sound like he doesn’t want to listen but it doesn’t seem worth it because he does. Shit.

“Nothing.”

“Bull.”

Michael fixes him with a wary glare. “Why do you care?”

Ryan decides to let him figure that one out himself. Wraps both hands around his coffee mug and gives it a moment.

“Can we go for a walk?”

“Yes,” Ryan says. Michael starts to get up, breathes a sigh when Ryan shakes his head. “But talk to me first.”

He avoids Ryan’s eyes. “I’m just...confused.”

Ryan leans forward in his seat. “How so?”

Michael’s gaze falls on something outside. He squints against the sun rising directly into his eyeballs. “There’s no...I just - I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like I want to _do something_ about all of this _shit_ , but...I can’t? I don’t know how? And you’re...it’s not, I mean,” he looks to Ryan. He’s mumbling again. “It’s whatever.”

“Usually I wouldn’t give you a choice, but,” Ryan muses. Holds his gaze. “Do you want to talk about it?”

A wry grin. His hands find their way to the table, close to Ryan’s. “Are you always this nice to your clients?”

He isn’t sure what to say. The answer is no, but is that the right answer?

“You’re a first.”

“I’m…” Michael glances away and back. “I’m glad it was you. Instead of someone else. I wish I could just take care of myself, but...it’s nice to not have to worry about it.”

“Leave me a good review on Yelp.”

“I’m serious,” Michael says. His hand clenches into a fist on the table, knuckles white. “It’s so fucking weird to not have to watch my six, and it’s sure as hell not the same thing as knowing people respect you enough, or that they’re fucking afraid or some shit. I don’t know what to _do_ with myself, Ryan.”

Ryan’s hand, warm from clutching his coffee, moves to cover Michael’s. He’s going to lose circulation and probably punch something. Maybe not in that order. Michael’s gaze meets his again. For the first time, he sees something in brown eyes that isn’t really just fear. Something that isn’t keeping him out. “Start over.”

“What?” Fear comes back, minutely. Hesitant.

“You can’t go back to when you were sixteen,” Ryan lets go of the mug in front of him entirely to pry Michael’s hand open. He’s going to hurt himself. “You can try something that isn’t going to hurt you. I didn’t grow up like you did, but...I ended up in kind of the same position. Didn’t know where to go when I needed it to stop. I met someone that could help me. There’s one for you, too, Michael.”

Michael looks to their hands. Frowns. “How do you know?”

“If anyone deserves a second chance, it’s you.” Mental note to ask Geoff about that. Maybe this will be over sooner than they anticipated, but Ryan has to keep him alive, first. Don’t worry about other shit.

“Can we actually go for a walk now?” Michael asks, eyes on their hands almost twined together on the table. Ryan takes his back to down a hearty sip of his coffee, not at all self-consciously. He taps his tablet twice. The screen turns on. A few pages left.

“Let me finish this chapter, then I'll set up the motion sensors inside and we can go.”

Michael rises from his seat to go upstairs, and Ryan watches him leave. He’s not okay, but...he'll be alright.

“He wants your dick, Ryan,” Gavin says.

“Shut the fuck up.”

\------------------

Ryan’s phone vibrates in his pocket when they pass the cameras. They hadn't spoken much in the twenty minutes they'd been out, and the security system hadn't told them anything had gone terribly wrong, so it was more of a comfortably silent stroll to watch the trees turn with a nice breeze and a few falling leaves. “It looks like it's going to rain,” Ryan muses. Michael snorts.

“I sure fucking hope so. My backyard looks like a goddamn Wheat Thin.”

“Kind of salty for an every day thing.”

“Come here,” Michael says, leading Ryan past the door. Toward the field of tall grass, looking nice and dry for the season. They move to the patch behind the barn.

“If you can get past the pokies and the stingy bugs and shit,” Michael begins picking his way into the grass. Ryan isn't wearing the right shoes for this. Michael reaches into the wilds in front of him and pulls something out. Blackberries. “There's some good fucking shit in these woods.”

They end up at the kitchen counter. Ryan pulls a bag of sugar from a cabinet and gives Michael a little bit of a look. “Do you even have a pan?”

“Uh,” Michael crouches to pull the drawer under the stove open. Starts digging around past some muffin tins. “Maybe? I don’t know?”

“That’s the _most important part.”_

“I mean, I lived here for a while a year or two ago, got a lot of useless shit I didn’t need because I convinced myself I would cook or bake or some crap like that. I’m pretty sure I have some gardening bullshit in the barn because I wanted to grow posies or some fuckery,” Michael pulls a pie pan from the drawer and slides it onto the stove. “Let’s make some fucking pie.”

They don’t end up finishing the pie. They end up throwing a lot of flour (“you’re making a _fucking mess,_ Haywood, you’d better clean that shit up”) and Ryan has a lot of batter on his shirt when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He wipes his hand on Michael and realises it’s not a check-in from Burnie. The silent alarm is going.

Ryan steps into the living room, where the curtains are drawn. The sun is high. He can’t see any shadows. He grabs his gun from the coffee table and is about to press some buttons on his watch when Gavin is there.

“We’ve got your alarm going off in Austin.”

“The motion detectors are going, but I haven’t heard anything yet. No cars. Doesn’t sound good,” Ryan waves Michael in the direction of the bathroom. He can position himself between that door and the two entrances to the house. Hypothetically.

“We’ve got two bodies on the north side,” Gavin says as a few quick knocks echo through the kitchen. Michael jumps, but doesn’t move away from the counter. Ryan doesn’t have time for this shit. He pushes Michael toward the dining table and gestures for him to hide beneath it on his way by. Thanks all that is holy the side door has a window. He can hear mumbling. Can’t see much past the curtain, but someone is out there.

“I’ve got them. Keep the line open.” He holsters his gun, glances back to confirm Michael is nowhere to be seen, and opens the door to a pleasant-looking man and woman. He lets them back him into the house. Watches them reach for the guns in their jackets and has his in his hand before he realises there’s another one opening the front door. It was locked. Not anymore.

“If you let us search the house you don’t have to shoot anyone,” the man says. Ryan hums. Three to one is not a good ratio, in his experience.

The woman looks up to her companion. Smiles at Ryan. “We didn’t think so, but...it would have been better.”

A shot fires from the front door. Misses completely - digs into the dining table’s surface, instead. This guy doesn’t look happy.

_Oh, Ryan, you have no idea._

The other two have their guns pulled and trained on him, but they seem hesitant to do much about it. Brief eye contact. Ryan fires a warning shot into the ceiling beside the guy. He jumps about a mile. Fires again, Ryan sidesteps further into the kitchen and it embeds itself in the floor where his feet were. The man and woman on his other side seem uncertain they should be doing much of anything.

Ryan fires back, with purpose this time, and the bullet ends up somewhere in the guy’s shooting arm. The man on his other side moves forward, now. A brief struggle, and Ryan manages to avoid a boxing in of his ear, but another catches him in the chest. He stumbles, struggles to catch his breath. His back is against the wall before he realises they’re tending to their friend instead of moving to shoot him in the forehead.

They’re having a heated conversation he chooses not to overhear as he pulls himself to stand fully against the countertop. Michael lifts the tablecloth and peeks out from underneath. He frowns when Ryan waves him off and focuses on the trio on the living room floor instead. They’re getting blood on the carpet. Michael’s going to be pissed.

The woman is standing to approach him, gun no longer anywhere Ryan can see it, so he holsters his at his hip and steps forward to meet her. Equal ground. Hypothetically. She stops a comfortable distance away, almost says something, pauses to look at the floor, then suddenly her eyes are at his side and Michael is there, hand on his arm.

“Get _down,_ ” or “get _the fuck out of here,_ ” Ryan would love to say, but there’s a click and a bang and he pushes Michael away but the aim is off and Michael is on the hardwood, clutching his leg and hissing through clenched teeth.

The woman has the gun out of her friend’s hand and the man is pinning him to the floor, but Ryan is kneeling beside Michael and peeling his hands away to assess the damage. He tries not to be worried. Michael isn’t swearing or doing _anything but grimacing_ and it’s not a good look on him-

Thank god. It just grazed him.

“Shit stings,” Michael grumbles. “‘S not bad.”

“Trust me, kid,” Ryan says. “You’ll feel it later.”

“Check in,” Gavin commands. Ryan tears open a pocket on his jacket and pulls out the tiniest fucking first aid kit probably in existence. He’s pretty sure they get these from Wal-Mart.

“Jones’ calf grazed, looks like a 9mm. Starting first aid ASAP. Will keep in touch.”

“Contact with PD, hostiles still on property,” Gavin says but he must be talking to Geoff because one voice pipes up through the buzz in the background. Ryan opens drawers until he finds a dishcloth and pulls a gauze pad from the kit and presses it into Michael’s palm. He’s mostly just grumbling on the floor, now. Adrenaline is kicking in.

“On your leg,” Ryan kneels beside him again, pulls his leg into a probably-awkward position. Takes a few swipes at the wound with the cloth. Pulls Michael’s hand back to the wound and presses through the gauze until Michael hisses. “Keep it there.”

A glance toward the group in the living room apparently gives the woman the encouragement she needs to approach again. Ryan stands to meet her halfway. The dude with her is leading their arm-cradling friend out the door.

“Sorry,” she says. Looks like she wants to say more.

“Don’t,” Ryan says. “You let your friend near my client in the future and he will no longer have that hand.”

“I-”

“Later.”

A half-second. She nods. Ducks out of the house. Ryan packs up - tosses things into and frantically zippers - his bag and vaguely carefully hauls Michael to his feet to guide him out the door. Michael stumbles. Ryan thinks “fuck it” and leans to get his legs in the other arm and carry him instead.

“Fuck,” Michael says, and Ryan isn’t sure if that’s because he’s bleeding through the gauze or because he’s being a piece of shit. He’ll ask later, when they aren’t running the ten-minute window between gunshots in a suburban neighborhood and police and are barely out the door. Gavin can only do so much.

“We’re out of the house, Jones is about to be in the car. I’m doing an emergency deactivation of the security system and we’ll be out of here in two minutes.”

“Make it a minute and thirty and you’re good,” Geoff replies. Ryan watches two cars pass them and turn left out of the driveway. One of them waves at him on the way by. “The PD is on their way in. West of you.”

“Ten-four,” Ryan says, dropping his bag on the ground next to the car. Opens the front passenger door to deposit Michael in his seat. Picks up his bag and tosses it into the back. Stops to look Michael over once before he leaves. “Think you can buckle yourself up?”

“My arms still work, mom.”

Ryan has almost everything undone and everything else temporarily deactivated in forty seconds, and is tossing the shit he’s bringing with him into the backseat of the SUV in roughly ten more. Michael is being grumpy in the front seat when Ryan climbs into the driver’s side.

“Your legs still work, too?” Ryan asks, turning the engine over. He reaches into the back and pulls a blanket from his bag. Tosses it at the passenger seat.

“Did you fucking steal this from my couch?” Michael asks. Wraps himself up almost immediately.

“It’ll help the shivering.” Ryan turns the key in the ignition and messes with the gear shift. He can hear Michael frowning. Would love to stop and talk about it but they have places to be, so he settles for reverse and gives it some gas to back out onto the street. “We’ll have to stop for a while as soon as we find a good spot. I have a friend to call.”

“That’s fine,” Michael says. Doesn’t sound very excited about it, but he’s a little busy curling up against his door. Head on the window. He’s still shivering, unfortunately. Not that Ryan ever really believed he was just cold in an Ohio summer.

“We’re on the road,” Ryan announces to whoever is in his ear. Hopefully. He powers down the street at a solid Kind of Over the Speed Limit.

“In the nick,” Gavin says. “What’s your ETA?”

“I’m going to pull over and call Monty as soon as I find a good place to stop for a while. I’ll let you know then.”

“Roger,” Gavin replies, and beeps mute. Ryan glances in Michael’s direction. Strategically places his hand on the center console. Doesn’t complain when Michael takes it. He needs it, right now, at least. Michael squeezing his hand to death conveniently reminds Ryan things could be worse. He’s not going to complain.

Ryan almost has Michael turn the radio on, but he finds a scenic overlook a little off the main road before he gets that far. Turns the car off. Beeps Gavin once to let him know they're stopping. He'll have them on GPS for a while still.

Ryan sits for a moment. He doesn’t need to call anyone right this second.

Michael looks a little offended when Ryan takes his hand back, but when the real first aid kit comes out of the backseat he probably decides it’s more worth his time to squish himself against his door again. “If you try to use a needle on me I swear to fucking christ-”

“I’m not using any needles. At worst we'll have to tourniquet your leg,” Ryan says. Looks up from the first aid kit and realises Michael looks.terrified. “That was a joke. I just have to clean the wound.”

Michael is sitting with his arms crossed when Ryan makes his way around to that side of the car. Sticks his leg out and looks away. Ryan didn’t know Michael was actually a six-year-old getting a shot the whole time. Really puts a wrench in things.

“This will sting,” Ryan warns just before he goes in with the isopropyl. No peroxide. This will do. “I’d feel better if we had a licensed professional doing this.”

“No thanks. I’ll get Ray to patch me up when I get home.”

Ryan pauses. Puts the alcohol down next to Michael's feet. Looks up to make contact and holds it. “When this is all over…”

“What?” Michael's smile is almost hopeful. Isn't really focused on him. It’s too close to something a little too dangerous for Ryan’s taste.

Ryan takes a moment to think about what words could possibly mean the things he’d like to say. He settles for, “We'll talk.” He’s not really going to pin anything down until neither of them are bleeding and no one has shot at them for at least an hour. Probably not good bedside manner to ask about dinner while you're wrapping someone up in gauze, either.

“Okay,” Michael says. He’s small. Sagging against the headrest of his seat. Ryan kneels and pulls some new gauze.

“I’m going to tape you up, then I’m going to make some calls,” Ryan says, taking one more swipe with the alcohol before he starts assessing his placement. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” Michael says. “But I'm pretty fucking salty we didn't get to eat those blackberries.”

“We can stop and get some on the way,” Ryan thinks about awkward-laughing. Shoves things back into his kit and takes a step back to give Michael some space. “Normally I wouldn't let you put your feet on my dashboard, but-”

“Where are we going?”

“That’s a good question,” Ryan says. “I have to make some calls. Stay in the car. Shoot anyone that tries to shoot you.”

Ryan moves away from the car, but keeps Michael in his sights. Monty picks up on the first ring - Ryan never calls unless it’s an emergency. “Are you home?”

“For you I can be,” Monty says. “What’s up?”

“I’m on assignment with a low-profile, high-risk client. Did a basic check for the car when we left our hotel the other night, didn’t find anything. Found a GPS in the wheel well later, disposed of it, checked the other three, and called it good,” Ryan sighs. “We were followed to our safehouse, ambushed maybe half an hour ago. I need you to bring the big guns in and give it a once-over. Maybe check the house, too.”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” Monty replies. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Ryan isn’t sure how exactly Monty always knows where he is. Maybe he doesn’t want to. He glances in the SUV’s direction to make sure Michael is alive. Calls Trevor. Takes a few rings, but he picks up.

“What’s up?” Trevor says. Sounds like he’s been drinking Red Bull with his coffee again.

“How’s Indianapolis?”

“She’s all yours if you need her,” Trevor replies. “Keep an eye on the cameras?”

“Wouldn’t hurt. Might want to keep an eye on her for the next few weeks, too. Not all of them are dead yet.”

“You know the code.”

Michael is on the phone when Ryan approaches the SUV again, waving his hands around and almost but not actually yelling. Might be a Jersey thing.

“And then the guy shot at him, like twice, and he shot back...I was under the table, I didn’t actually see anything, fuckface, anyways, there was this chick and this guy-” Michael glances in his direction. Grimaces. “I have to go. No, I was just waiting for Ryan...fuck off, I’ll call you. Gross. Bye.”

“Ray?” Ryan asks. Michael nods, sliding out of the car and joining him roadside with a solid limp. Ryan would love to punch himself.

“Letting him know I was switching out my burner. Not really into getting shot again.”

“Would be good if we didn’t do that,” Ryan says. “My guy will be here in twenty. I’m going to take a minute for inventory. Try not to mess with your leg.”

“I’m calling my handler to get my new phone activated,” Michael says, stepping away from Ryan, toward the back of the SUV. His hand brushes Ryan’s arm on the way by. “Stop looking at me like you’re the problem.”

Ryan is still sorting through the shit he’d tossed in the back seat when Michael finds him again. 

“Still got that hammer?” Michael dangles his phone between two fingers. “This fucker is already on factory reset and he’s about to find himself six feet under in the woods somewhere.”

Ryan pulls his keys and pops the trunk. “Go crazy.”

Michael is walking back up the hill from the woods when Monty pulls up behind the SUV in an unfortunately blue vehicle. Michael looks to Ryan with a raised brow. Ryan nods.

“Long time no see, Haywood,” Monty approaches with a grin and hooks an arm around him. “You been getting around?”

“With my schedule? Every day,” Ryan says as drily as possible. “We need to be out of here before dark. Think you can manage that?”

“I can have you out of here in twenty minutes,” Monty says, leaving Ryan to jog around to the back of his RAV4. He returns with what looks like a plastic briefcase. Maybe a container for a drill bit set, but Ryan knows the equipment costs a lot more than some drill bits.

“Is he okay?” Michael whispers when he sidles up to Ryan.

“When he’s awake, he’s working. When he’s not working, he’s asleep. He’s as okay as he’s going to get.”

Ryan and Michael are leaning against the side of the car when Monty is done, heads together. Deep in conversation. Ryan almost jumps when Monty taps him on the shoulder. Holds up a little black box and some snipped wires when they turn around. GPS in the dashboard. Great. That explains a whole bunch.

“What’s that?” Michael says. Angles himself toward Monty to get a closer look at the box.

Monty is more than happy to educate him. “This is a GPS module. There’s an audio bug in there, too, but you’re going to have to give me a minute to dig that bad boy out.”

Ryan and Michael share a glance. That explains even more.

Monty wanders off to his trunk again, and Michael grabs Ryan’s hand. Is smiling when Ryan turns to look at him. “This means they won’t be trying to kill me anymore, right?”

“Well, they’re probably still trying, but they’re going to have a hell of a time finding you.”

He isn’t worried about it. “Cool, so you get to stay, and we get to do non-hiding and running shit. Like-”

_“No hits,”_ Ryan stage-whispers. Mostly for Monty’s benefit. Easier to play the I’m-not-listening game when you can pretend you didn’t hear anything.

“I wasn’t talking about hits, asshole,” Michael hisses. “Like going out to see that one horror movie and getting real food, no offense to your cooking, but I need grease.”

“What I cook is real food. Grease isn’t good for you.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Alright, guys, you’re all set,” Monty calls, rounding the car and passing them on the way to the RAV4. “Just start the car to make sure it doesn’t blow up or anything.”

_”What?”_ Clearly, Michael’s never encountered a car bomb before. Or Monty.

“I’m kidding,” Monty says, grinning. Looks to Ryan. “But it probably wouldn’t hurt.”

“That makes me feel really nice inside,” Michael says. “I was looking forward to getting blown up today.”

Ryan leans into the driver’s seat and turns the engine over. No explosions. Beeps Gavin.

“How did it go?” Gavin says. Sounds tired. He’s talking with his mouth full again.

“We found another GPS and an audio bug in the dashboard. Oum is checking the house, then he’s off the hook,” Ryan says. “Is that a sub? Save me some.”

“I’ll use the spare key and leave one in your fridge for Monday.”

“Roger,” Ryan says. Watches Michael buckle himself in. Waves Monty off as he pulls away. “We’re going to Trevor’s place in Indianapolis. Straight shot from here. Probably three hours. I’ll let you know when we get closer.”

“Got it. You’re the priority case right now, Rye - Burns will kill me if you die.”

“I’ll do my best,” Ryan slides into his seat and closes the door behind him. “Get some sleep, Gav. We’re on our way.”


End file.
